“Because whatever brought Lucy here, to this point in her life, isn’t an unsolved mystery. It’s not a cold case. Justice doesn’t need to be served, because it already has been. So it’s really only me, Maxine Revere, being curious just because I want to know.”
Sean didn’t say anything, and Max ordered another round of drinks. She wasn’t positive he believed her, but she didn’t care. She believed herself. That she wanted to know didn’t mean she had to know, and for the first time she was really okay with that.
When the drinks came, Max took a long sip, then ate one of the three olives. “You read my books, you know about my mother.”
“You don’t hold back.”
“Rarely. I don’t like secrets and hidden agendas and people I don’t understand. I never understood my mother—why she moved all the time, why we never had a home, why she even had me in the first place. I created all these fantasies in my head about her being a spy, a fugitive, in witness protection—I had an active imagination. And then I find out she has a huge trust fund and lived on the money my great-grandparents had worked so hard for. The Sterlings came from nothing and made something wonderful. I didn’t know any of it until I was nearly ten and my mom left me with my grandparents and never came back. And my mother? She did nothing for it except to be born. Because I believed so many lies growing up, I’m skeptical of everything now.”
“Did you ever look for her?”
“On and off. She used to send me birthday cards—I was born December thirty-first. She said my birthday would always be a party. But I don’t even know if that’s my real birthday, I don’t have a real birth certificate. My grandparents had one filed with the courts—I mean, I exist—but even they don’t know where I was born or what day. They didn’t know about me until my mom left me with them.”
“So you solve cold cases because your life is one big cold case.”
“Pretty much.” She ate a french fry. “I know you and Lucy want to stay off the grid, as much as you can, and I will continue to respect that wish. Like I said, I have a lot of admiration for your wife, and I don’t want to blow her trust.”
Sean drained his beer. “You want to know why I was expelled from Stanford?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course I do. I said I wouldn’t dig around, not that I didn’t want to know.” She smiled, and was relieved when Sean smiled back.
“I learned that one of my professors was a pedophile. I hacked into a cybercrime symposium on campus and exposed not only the professor, but the flaws in the new FBI cybercrime software.”
She didn’t doubt Sean had done exactly that. She was about to comment when her phone vibrated.
“It’s my producer.”
“You want me to leave?” he asked, though he made no move to get up.
She shook her head. “Ben, I hope you have something good.”
“Depends how you define good. I found another victim.”
She sighed. It wouldn’t end, would it?
“Where?”
“San Jose, California. A seven-year-old boy went missing from his bedroom eleven years ago. He was found in a shallow grave but several weeks later, and his body was not in good shape. They determined he died of a drug overdose, not suffocation, but he was wrapped in his own blanket with a stuffed animal. Father was having an affair. But it didn’t originally pop up on our radar because there was one other distinct difference.”
When Ben didn’t immediately tell her, she said, “You’re killing me, Ben.”
“There was a second victim. The babysitter was shot to death. The police went with the theory that a sexual predator broke in, killed the babysitter and grabbed the kid. When they found his body, they determined there was no sexual assault but attributed it to the fact that the sexual predator had accidentally overdosed him.”
“Was there any forensic evidence?”
“No. The police rounded up all the sexual predators in the neighborhood, but couldn’t get anyone to confess and with no physical evidence they couldn’t make a case.”
“The babysitter caught her in the act—wow. Okay, I’m going to pass that information on to Agent Kincaid.”
“The San Jose Police Department has ballistics—according to Nick, they ran them through the federal database and didn’t get a hit, but tell your agent that if they find the gun, they can match. I just forwarded you everything we have.”
“Nick? You called Nick?”
“Yeah, is that a problem? If I had to get information in Florida, I would have called Marco.”
“Don’t do that again.”
“You’re breaking up with him, aren’t you?”
“None of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business, Maxine.”
She hung up without comment and checked her e-mail. As Ben said, he’d sent her the file—she forwarded it to Lucy, then sent her a text message.
Found the missing victim—Jonah Oliver. Eleven years ago. His babysitter was shot and killed. There are some differences in the MO, but nothing substantial. San Jose police have ballistics, should be in the FBI database. Be careful, you now know she has a gun.
“Another victim?” Sean said.
“Yes. I sent everything to your wife.”
“Does it bother you not to be in the middle of things?”
“Who says I’m not?” She smiled and turned her laptop toward him. “I have my work done, just need to layer in the details.”
Sean’s face darkened. Before he could threaten her again—which she wouldn’t appreciate—she said, “I’m not mentioning Lucy. Your brother-in-law—Dr. Kincaid—has already agreed to give me something good, and I’m going with that. I stick by my promises.”
Sean relaxed and smiled. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but he was softening toward her … as much as anyone as curious and suspicious as he was could soften.
“I guess we have time while we wait—another drink?”
“Absolutely.”
She wasn’t holding out hope that she’d get more information out of Sean Rogan than she had out of Lucy, but it would be fun trying to figure him out.
He was just as interesting as his wife.
Maybe even more so.
Chapter Thirty-two
“I’m never going to complain about traffic in San Antonio again.”
Ken glanced at Lucy. “You were raised in San Diego, right? We have awful traffic.”
“You have to admit, San Diego isn’t as bad as this.”
They were driving slow—at two in the afternoon—on I-5 through downtown L.A. Ken made Lucy nervous with the way he juggled two phones while he navigated traffic, but she didn’t say anything. She had to admit, she was a nervous driver. She had been in a car accident when she was five, and another just two years ago when she had taken a witness into protective custody. The person who wanted her dead ran them off the road. The only time she wasn’t nervous was when Sean was driving—not because Sean was unusually safe, but because he generally distracted her with conversation and jokes.
“There’s this great burger place in Burbank, which is probably where we’re going to stay tonight. My office reserved two rooms at a Residence Inn, just in case. I don’t mind driving back late, but I think we’ll need a day or two of interviews.”